Not Dead Yet: A British Zombie Apocalypse Series - Books 1-3, page 68
I sighed, counted a beat, twisted around…
…and all I could do was sigh again.
For the birds were all completely still.
I turned back and once more averted my gaze as I slumped forwards in my saddle and began to cry.
An Abandoned House In The Woods
My ears were still ringing.
Savage had had no cause to do what he did, no matter my deeds, shouting at me that way, scaring the horses, and tearing my collar, no less.
At least it was over now, I’d taken my medicine, been roughed up just enough to slake his rage, and we were back on our way. Most important of all though, I’d managed to avoid the dead and that was all that mattered to me. It was still a win, despite everything, I still felt as though I’d come out on top and maybe, just maybe, one day they’d understand, they’d understand whenever that time came when they were close enough to inhale the rot, to feel the slippery leatheriness of their decaying flesh, aye, we’d see how keen they were to engage a horde of zombies after they’d experienced what I had. Not that a furious Mister Savage wasn’t almost as frightful a sight and it had taken both Colonel Willie and Major Baird, as well as Mister Metcalfe to settle the maniac.
“No ammo and no communication and all because of you,” he’d yelled, “I remember the way you were treating those birds back at the village, aye, and it wouldn’t surprise me if you murdered them intentionally, just so you wouldn’t have to hear their sweet, sweet songs … oh those poor, poor birds,” that was when he’d brought up the crop, which Willie received across the snout as reward for jumping between us. The cut had started blood, which the colonel ignored as it drizzled down his neck.
But if Savage had been right about my avoiding the dead, he was very wrong about the pigeons. I may not have enjoyed being up close with them and at times their incessant pecking brought on head pains, but they were my leverage against any bad behaviour by these potential ne’er-do-wells, for even Savage was liable to fall into line upon the threat of being snitched upon to the Duke of Marlborough. Now that leverage was stiff at the bottom of a cage, rattling around with every turn and jolting with every bump of this forest track.
For a noticeable while, nobody had spoken to me and when I endeavoured to make smalltalk with Baird, he galloped ahead before I could reach him. As we persisted, Willie tipped back his head and allowed the water from his flask to wash away the blood from his face, all the while being mindful to maintain a distance from Savage who, as usual, was upfront and so far in the distance I half hoped he’d spur off ahead to Kempsey alone, allowing the rest of us to catch up in our own time, or not.
There was to be no such luck, however, because eventually, Savage stopped beside a cottage that emerged in a small clearing in the trees. As we neared, I could see it was old, overgrown, isolated, and I wondered if the last inhabitant had left even before the militias had been sent out to evacuate the population behind the line. We reined in a careful distance from the unhinged man perched still half naked and surveyed the single-floored structure that had to have dated back further than the sixteen hundredth year of Christ though, in truth, it was impossible to tell. It was grey, made of dry stone and possessed a roof of thatch from where birds had made their nests. The sole door to the abode was so small it would necessitate the stooping down of every man present to gain entrance and was about the only thing of colour, painted green as it was with a heavy brass knocker. Two small wooden shutters shuddered with the wind, producing a constant racket of wood in its frame. That same wind now howled at the leaves above, which were again enshrouding us in darkness and what with all else, truth be told, I had small desire to wait around here, not when we were but a mere two-hour ride from our destination.
Not feeling the same desire to leave, the colonel had dismounted and was now attempting to force the door while Metcalfe inspected the stable, which lay directly opposite linked by a short dirt track and was taller than the principal structure, if smaller, and had thick wooden lintels and a long stone trough built into its base. Rainwater from the night’s deluge was still running off the stable roof, to drip into the trough which was slick with green scum. A large pile of logs was stacked against the stonework.
Willie succeeded in jarring the door open and after disappearing for half a minute, returned with an expression that suggested he’d seen nothing of particular interest. “Just a house,” he declared monotone.
We were all glancing silently at Savage, whose face had softened since the last time I’d dared look. “Gentlemen,” he began with opened out arms, “I feel the need to apologise for my earlier outburst.” This was a revelation. “Despite what you might have read about me, I’m not usually quick to anger.” That wasn’t my experience. “Anyway, Colonel Willie, in the short time we’ve been acquainted, I’ve come to respect the man, even as I already respected the myths,” he reached down with a paw, “I’m sorry for having struck you, it was an accident,” his eye flicked briefly across to me, “and if you’ll accept it, I extend my hand to you in friendship.”
There was a silence as we all watched, Willie’s cheek now had a very visible cut where the bit had intended on striking me. His foot scuffed the dirt, hesitating, but then the colonel stepped forward and reached up with his hand. “I accept, Mister Savage, for the duration of our important mission, I accept your friendship.”
Savage nodded and glanced in turn to Metcalfe and Baird, conspicuously skipping over a one Captain Jack Strapper. “Gentlemen, our horses are fagged out and fretful and after their horrendous ordeal, who can blame them.” He sighed and appeared visibly tired. “I’m loathe to push them any farther this day. I propose we bed here for the night.” He clocked me and his gaze seemed to follow toward the stable, whatever that meant, but the others were nodding along like puppies, evidence as to who was increasingly gaining control over our band. Losing the ammo and killing the pigeons had changed things, they looked at me different now. “Let’s rest, take stock and gather ourselves before the final push.” He gestured down his body, the river-fouled breeches. “If possible, I’d like to make myself somewhat presentable before our arrival.”
Baird cleared his throat. “Mister Savage, there’ll be clean water at Kempsey, or so I assume.”
Savage waved it away. “Not how I was brought up, but I thank you for your consideration.” He sighed and looked up into the sky, which had darkened noticeably in only the short time we’d been idle. “We’ll have to be quick if we’re to catch some worthwhile sustenance.” He swung from his horse, grabbed his haversack and waited for the rest. Willie and Metcalfe joined him where the trees verged onto the clearing, leaving only Baird with me beside the horses.
“Don’t take it to heart, Jack, but I suggest giving them a rest from you for a short while, tempers are frayed but they’re fine men, mostly, give them a few moments away to stretch their legs, regain composure, just long enough to bag some venison. They’ll be right just as soon as they’re sinking their teeth into some of that, all will be forgotten then, don’t you worry, all will be right.” He glanced over a shoulder to where the three of them were patiently waiting, Savage was leaning against a tree stretching out his quads. “Maybe make it up to the lads, Jack, a nice gesture might be to wait back here and take care of the horses; remove that damned lumber from them, bring the boxes inside so we can take stock, see what you didn’t quite destroy, give them a rest from all that weight they’ve been lugging about and bed them in for the night, what?”
“And wash them down,” Savage called over the distance, “can you do that right, you damned bloody fool?”
Baird grimaced and shook his head, “can you, Jack?”
I nodded, “I think I can, Major.”
“Good, Jack,” he grabbed ahold of my shoulder and squeezed, “good.”
“And find a shovel to bury those poor murdered pigeons,” Savage called again.
Evidently, even Baird was in need of respite from me as he hurried to join them and then together, they sauntered off into the planks, leaving me alone while the wind howled at the trees and those damned shutters persisted with their sinister rattling.
Two of the horses were plucking at what little grass existed on the ground and I took the moment to admire the colonel’s stallion, beautiful as it was, ignoring the owl that attempted to torment me with its hoots, before making a start removing the strap from the first box, which was heavy with priceless engine parts. Carefully, and without incident, I managed to lower it groundwards, even as some creature of the forest howled in the distance. The next box followed and one after the other, I carried them to the dim inside of the house, which stank of fust, and stacked them against an exposed stone wall as the floorboards creaked fiendishly beneath my boots. After tugging open the stable door and feeling the wind of a fleeing bat whizz against my face, I planted a rock at its foot to hold it in place, before leading Willie’s horse inside, blundering through a sheet of cobwebs, and with what little light remained, I was able to locate a brace of lanterns. I hung them on the wall, the stench of old shit hanging heavy in the air, before removing the saddle and tack and settling the beast into one of the open stalls which contained heaps of damp straw that was making rat-like tweeting sounds. I repeated the process with Savage’s horse, those damned shutters, Baird’s and Willie’s with its one remaining box so that before long everything we were carrying had been transported inside. After taking Metcalfe’s horse into a stall, I returned for the final mount, Otis, as the branches above clattered together in a devil’s song. I carried the first trunk within the gloominess of the structure, exited and returned for the cage with its dead weight that rolled around with every tilt. It felt light in comparison to the boxes, though damned if I knew what to do with the contents. I hefted it up and gasped an involuntary lungful of feathers, spent the next minute coughing and wheezing, and staggered around the side of the abode, trampling through bog and finding the hatch on the ground. I set the cage aside and stooped to grab ahold of the handle, heaved it up and damn near retched on the gaseous blast of atrociousness that erupted out from under me. Rats rushed out fleeing in their unknown quantity, flies, and Gad only knew what else as the sludge roiled and bubbled below. I heaved and shed tears as a thin stream of mucus dribbled from my nose and quickly seizing the cage, I yanked open its little door and commenced violently shaking the contents into the shit below. There were several plops as the birds sank to their eternal resting place, I sent the cage in after them and dropped the hatch quicker than a Catholic lets fall his breeches on his wedding night. By now my eyes were stinging fiendish and, staggering back to my waiting horse, I was about to unite him with his friends and be done with it all when there was a rustling from the trees.
Well, I’d already had my fill, I can tell you, and wasn’t waiting around. The human body can be surprising when it wants because for the first time this mission, I found the capacity to spring atop the saddle on the first attempt and then I was off, just as fast, charging in the opposite direction from where I’d heard the sound. I found some space and wheeled around, squinting in the house’s direction for the emergence of those things, periodically checking all around and concentrating on any sound near or far. I tried my glass but from this distance, in this fading light, it offered little my eyes couldn’t already bestow. The wind continued to play a devil, those blasted shutters just barely audible from my new position, one of the horses whinnied, there might have been a hoof stomp that carried over, more rustling and I eased the horse backwards until all the creepy noises had faded.
How long had the others been? Where were they?
My belly growled. I wanted a leg of venison.
For how long I waited, I couldn’t say, twenty, thirty minutes, but when I could be certain there were no dead lurking around the house, I slinked back, breathing, not sure whether to be relieved or more on edge than ever but I slid from the saddle and walked Otis to the stable, placed it in the stall directly opposite the door and was in the act of contemplating locking myself inside when I heard the beautiful tootling of a flute in the middle distance and augmenting by the second. Never was I so happy to hear Savage. As it grew louder I could discern the excited chatter, what might have been a slap on the back and someone shouting “huzzaaaaa.”
“Bloody good show, Mister Savage, jumping down from a tree like that … not seen the like in all my days.”
“When a man’s as ravenous as I, Major…”
I came out yawning obnoxiously with arms outstretched, “all done, lads,” I called and heaved the door closed, sliding the bar into position and dusting off my hands.
It went silent and someone coughed. “Very good, Jack,” said Baird over the small distance. Savage was carrying something large across his shoulders while both Metcalfe and Willie were grasping a brace each of what I guessed to be hare, though might have been anything.
In silence, I followed them all inside the house, though because of the space taken up by the crates, I had to hunch in the threshold whilst they located the lanterns. After a minute the small foyer illuminated and Savage immediately began examining how I’d stacked the boxes, as though half in expectation they might tumble at any moment and cause another calamity. Finally, he grunted and the floorboards groaned intensely as he bounded to the left and I heard a thud, which I assumed to be him dumping the mammal across a work surface.
His voice boomed out from the room. “Someone get the coals going, I want this thing on the spit quick sharp.” I eased inside and angled to the left, which revealed a larder and there was Savage looming down upon a large table, slitting a deer’s belly and rolling out the entrails to slop over the floor. He was still half naked and his arms were bloody to the elbow. Something squelched. He wielded his blade, an awful looking thing with serrated edges and hacked it down over a hoof. “And you! Cretin,” he didn’t look up as he took a small knife and began working the loose skin from the severed foot up the leg, “you’re in charge of drying my shirt. You reckon you can manage that? And I want it pressed, you dog.” Someone laughed from the other room and he finished peeling the skin off to the shoulder, exposing the meat beneath. He brought the blade down again, hatchet style, then again, and again, splattering blood all over himself as the limb separated. “Well?”
I swallowed, “um, yes, I can do that.”
That made him look up and he stopped and stared at me for a brief moment of incredulity before shaking his head. “Cream of the crop.”
I left the awful man to it and tried to take in the house. To the left, there was another room but my curiosity wasn’t such that I’d risk going near Savage just to see what it was. I found a bedroom that nobody had yet thought to bag so naturally I threw my haversack upon the four-poster and scattered its contents, trinkets and good luck charms mostly, but also coins, soggy powder, a few balls and a handkerchief, across the eiderdown, which in turn, I ruffled a fair bit before removing my boots and socks, still damp from the Avon, and laying them strategically upon the pillow.
Various chops and grunts were still emanating around the house as I wandered into an open planned lounge and kitchen illuminated by a duo of lamps and a scattering of candles. The floorboards had decayed and were partially covered by threadbare rugs discoloured from dust, the plastered ceiling was stained yellow, probably from pipe smoke and there was an ever-present stale smell of earth.
Willie was lying back on a low lounger, eyes closed while Baird shovelled heaps of wood and coal into a large stove set against a wall, “you find any paper, Mister Metcalfe?”
The American was pulling out reams of the stuff from a large chest with a smashed lock mechanism, his blond hair flowed several inches past his shoulders. “You could say that, Major.” It seemed the owner was a hoarder of The Morning Post since there appeared to be little else within the chest and there were now several years of the rag strewn across the floor.
The room’s main feature, a beautifully handcrafted cabinet that covered almost the entire length of the kitchen wall, from floor to ceiling, was so large the house possessed not half enough items to place upon it, a mixture of books mostly, but also a few utensils, kitchen weighing scales and vases containing dead flowers. I shuddered, whoever had lived here was poor.
“Might I have some?” Enquired Baird, his back still to me.
“Ah’ll tell you what, Major, you can use this ‘nstead,” and he tossed across the room a hardback volume with an elderly negress upon the cover.
Baird caught it and winced, “Narrative of Sojourner Truth?” It had been a well-publicised account of an escaped slave. “That’s her name?” He asked with astonishment.
“Just count yourself lurcky you only have them Irish to deal with but feel free to burn it, Major, ’n’ ah’ll take these papers here for a bit’a readin’.” That was when Metcalfe turned around and noticed my presence in an opened space that suddenly felt even more isolating.
Baird saw too and glanced over from the job of tearing out pages. “Oh, hello there, Jack,” he coughed and the silence became even more noticeable, prompting me to question who might have been the main topic of conversation during their male bonding sojourn into the woods. Baird clocked the Yank then me again. “So how are you?” There was something in his tone, something gone.
“Brother, I, um, I was wondering if you needed your jacket drying.”
Metcalfe, who had since seated himself at the table with a pile of papers snorted and began shaking his head with a sneer.
Baird ignited a fistful of pages, which he threw into the stove, closing the door. “Oh, I think I have that handled, Jack, but thanks.” He turned away to better oversee the stove’s closed door.
“How about pressing?”
He was saved from having to respond by the stomping noise that grew louder, I could feel the reverberations come up through the floor and then Savage breezed in holding a large platter of deer cuts. He paid me no heed as he bounded past to approach the stove. There was a top door, which he opened before dumping the meat on the grill. Baird opened the bottom hatch and began stoking the coals before returning to stand beside Savage. I heard muttering between them but could not make out the words.
